


Freedom Calls For Blood

by TehLotteh



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: AU - Assassin's Creed inspired, And violence, M/M, Magic doesn't exist anymore thanks to evolution, So much death, and a lot more angsty, but the Mage v Templar war continues, it'll probably get gory later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-04-24 12:35:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4919794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TehLotteh/pseuds/TehLotteh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Garrett Amell had everything he could hope for - a wealthy family, a stable situation. A great house, a good relationship with his siblings, his sister's potential engagement to Sebastian Vael. He was a noble whose parents weren't pushing for a marriage he didn't want, and everything was going as planned.</p><p>And then one day, everything goes wrong, and he finds himself embroiled in a war that his father and his ancestors have been fighting for centuries. Magic may no longer exist, but the Mages and Templars are underground cults fighting to the death in the search for truth.</p><p>Pulled into the brotherhood of the Mages by the mysterious Darktown Trio known as Anders, Justice and Karl, Garrett must adopt the role he was born into and take up the mantle of vengeance to seek justice for the crimes committed against his family. </p><p>Secrets run thicker than blood within the brotherhood, and 'Hawke' must choose whether to put his trust in these complete strangers, or join the cause of the Templar Order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been bugging me for ages so I decided to finally sit down and write it. I don't know how long it will be, I don't know how long the main motivation will last for it, but I have juicy plot plans that I would love to get out. I finished writing this at 3am and I haven't proofread it yet so I apologise for any errors that may come up!
> 
> Basically came about because I realised I wanted to see Hawke wearing Ezio's gear from Assassin's Creed: Revelations. And then made the whole eagle-hawk connection and that Anders could totally play the part of Da Vinci.
> 
> I shall update tags as and when they become necessary, so for now, I hope you enjoy!

Kirkwall was, by no stretch of the imagination, a pretty shitty city. Hightown was great, for the most part, if the most one cared about was having an elaborate building over your head. The wonderful quarter of the city where rumours galore spread, who was shagging who, if there was a third or fourth person involved, _did Lord Wigglebottom_ _ **really**_ _invite his_ _ **sister**_ _to stay with them for the weekend?_

The scandal.

The upper class in the city ran like some finely tuned clock powered by gossip and hearsay and oiled by coins. Money was everything in the Free Marches, and it meant far more to have been born into it than earned it yourself. There were scarce few nobles who had worked a day in their life in the silver spoon social circle, scorned because they just didn't know how to stay in their own class. Couldn't leave Hightown well enough alone, could they? They just had to spread their filth into the cleanliness above them.

Lowtown might have been a taboo subject to broach, but nothing compared to Darktown. Just the mention of it had ladies swooning and making a huge fuss and how _dare_ their servant bring up the place they had come from? Nobody liked to admit that they employed Darktown residents. It just wasn't a done thing.

And what else wasn't a done thing in the infamous City of Chains?

Marrying commoners.

Which was exactly what Leandra Amell had done.

The Amell family were well known for their powerful status in the city before Leandra disgraced them (although most nobles conveniently 'forgot' Gamlen's banishment from the family by their father some decades ago – it wasn't such good gossip) but with Leandra as the sole heir to the fortune, it either had to go to her and her common-born husband or be lost to the city's coffers – and that was a fate worse than death for any noble.

And it just so happened that out of that scandalous marriage she had topped it off by bearing three children – three intelligent, charming and attractive children that the other nobles were oh so kindly willing to overlook in order to secure some wedding or other with their own offspring. The only daughter, Bethany, had already received a great number of offers of marriage, some stretching far and wide, from Ferelden to Starkhaven. The rumour mill had it that even Prince Sebastian Vael had expressed an interest in her hand, but the Amell family had neither encouraged or denied this latest string of gossip.

For the two sons, however, things were going less smoothly. Bethany's twin brother, Carver, was not the main target for most women. He was handsome enough, dedicated, a good sword arm too, but he was the second son. His inheritance would not be worth weathering his brash nature, not when there was a more attractive, more charming and more powerful brother still on the market.

It was fortunate, really, that Garrett had absolutely no interest in courting anyone in this social bracket, and neither of his parents tried to force him into it either. Bethany had made her own choice to marry, and she was of age, and so Malcolm (né Hawke) and Leandra had endeavoured to help her make all the right choices possible and to steer her away from the pitfalls aspiring mothers might send the way of their potential daughter-in-law-to-be. Bethany was definitely a hopeless romantic, and Garrett knew she was just as like to throw herself at once man as the next.

Not to do his baby sister discredit, of course.

Still, from the letters she had been sending (and gushing over in his room while he was trying to write letters of his own), things were really hitting off between her and the illustrious Vael. He wrote well, had neater handwriting than most scribes he knew, and always arranged for the local florist to bring an elaborate bouquet to accompany each correspondence. He wasn't the oldest of his brothers and wasn't in direct line to rule just yet, but had enough to do to keep Bethany occupied should she move in with him. In fact, she and their Mother were heading to Starkhaven for a short visit to allow the two time to know each other properly, not that it was common knowledge. The excuse was that they were visiting distant relatives of the Amell line, and for the most part, people bought it.

Malcolm was unable to leave the estate without him watching over it, Carver didn't want to leave his potential girlfriend (a commoner, carrying on the tradition like a true Amell), and Garrett was being kept behind to help his father keep everything in order.

In all honesty, he was looking forward to having the two flustered women out of the house, and if Carver's expression was anything to go by, he was feeling the same way.

They'd been discussing dresses for _days_ leading up to the trip, summer dresses, evening dresses, dresses for certain occasions, dresses for walking by the sea, dresses for walking through the park, dresses for reading, dresses for sewing, dresses for private talking – it never ceased to amaze him what bullshit women in general came up with in order to justify buying more clothing. They were directing the servants as the last trunks were packed in the cart and even if he had wanted to go along with them, there was genuinely no space left for him. He had a sneaking suspicion that at least one of those boxes was just full of shoes, but he wasn't about to comment on it, knowing he'd just be on the receiving end of a “you know nothing about women” speech.

He, Carver and their father were all stood on ceremony in the courtyard as final goodbyes were said, and Bethany bodily pulled her two brothers into a tight hug, squealing in excitement at the same time in a pitch that set his teeth on edge. He roughly hugged her in turn, and when she eventually let them go he smiled fondly at her. He still thought of her as a little girl, running around with her stuffed toys and covered in mud. He had fonder memories still of him pretending to be a big dog while she and Carver rode on his back, back when they were all so young and carefree. He often forgot that she was practically an adult now, definitely her own woman and certainly ready to move on in her life.

“Try not to have too much fun in Starkhaven, alright? I've been having nightmares for weeks that you're going to come back with that-” He shuddered for effect, dropping his voice to a low growl then as he glanced around. “That _accent_.”

She snorted in a fashion that was entirely the opposite of ladylike and flicked him playfully on the arm, her eyes dancing as she looked up at him. He stood a good head and shoulders above her and easily three times as wide, while Carver sat comfortably somewhere in the middle. The two brothers were muscle than fat thanks to a shared interest in the art of sword fighting (and sneaking out in the middle of the night to get into trouble as only noble-born young men do), while Bethany had never shown even the slightest inclination to learn. She was more than happy to take up the delicate crafts of needlework and music, and that suited them all just fine. Garrett didn't think he would be happy sparring with her with as much reckless abandon as he did with Carver. The two had plenty of scars and bruises to show for it, too.

“Oh, don't worry, I won't enjoy being the Prince's guest while I get to try out all the food, and go shopping – I think we might be going to the theatre there too, and oh, maybe we'll go for a picnic, and Mother and I will go to so many balls and meet so many people..” She trailed off with a dreamy sigh, and he rolled his eyes in good humour. It was a world she thrived in, the constant hobnobbing and socialising and keeping in constant contact with everyone around her. It wasn't easy, and he was proud that she managed it so well. Still, it was far from his own interests and he just couldn't imagine being happy doing that sort of thing.

“You.. Yeah, you do that, Bethy.”

“And hopefully you two boys can find something productive to do with your time that doesn't involve skirts, Carver Aristide Amell,” came the cutting voice of the high-born Leandra before Carver's protests of 'Mother!' followed. She held herself with the air of a woman born to greatness, and spoke with a crisp eloquence that only Bethany seemed to have inherited. Garrett could sound smooth and educated when he wanted, but he felt more himself with the softer country accent of his Fereldan-born Father. He wouldn't lie, there were perks of growing up in a secure noble family, but it felt a little restricting at times.

“Why don't you warn Garrett, too?”

“Maybe because I don't go after skirts?” He grinned, raising an eyebrow at his younger brother, earning himself an elbow in the side that quickly developed into a scuffle. In a general sense he didn't like one night stands or short affairs, and he had a stronger inclination towards people of the same sex. It wasn't frowned upon in high society to bat for that team, but in the matter of the heir carrying on the line it wasn't ideal. Still, that was where Bethany would be worth her weight in gold, even if they would lose the Amell name.

And there was some hope for Carver, too, if the right girl came along for him.

“Boys..”

“..Will be boys.”

Malcolm stepped over with a proud look on his face as he watched his sons, and wrapped a warm arm around his wife. Although starting to grow peppered with grey hairs, he was the spitting image of his older son, with a fuller beard and a hairline that was beginning to recede. They had the same amber eyes, the same strong jaw and broad build, although Garrett had inherited his mother's nose, the regal Amell nose. Malcolm's looked like it had been broken more than once and, if he had been half as reckless as his children, it was easy to see why. He placed a warm kiss on Leandra's cheek, and Garrett and Carver politely turned away from it (with a shared, childish look of disgust) so that the two could say their goodbyes properly, Leandra reminding him what to do, what not to do, who needed to be kept in touch with, who he should invite to dinner, which servants were taking holiday leave when, and an endless list that he more than likely already knew off by heart.

“My dear, don't fret. Just you and Bethany enjoy your holiday in Starkhaven – you worry too much, my love.”

“I will relax only as much as I can without you with me,” She responded, leaning in to give him another kiss as Carver made a rather loud gagging noise.

“Adults disgust me sometimes. So much kissing, too much lovey-dovey emotion, always touching. It's so wrong!”

“So, you mean when you had your head up Peaches' skirts you weren't touching her?”

The temptation to tease his brother had been too much and he easily dodged the punch thrown his way, a look of pure anger on Carver's face. His temper was his problem, and he too easily went into a beserker's rage when taunted. He threw punch after punch that Garrett had little trouble in sidestepping, the actions too rough and wild to be of any real threat even if he had the stamina to keep in this fit for a long time.

“I knew you were spying on me! Just because you can climb fucking buildings and nobody seems to see your fat arse doesn't mean you can follow me when I go out!”

“What, I thought you might get mugged? Or maybe you were doing lyrium dust, I don't know-”

“Garrett!”

“Mother, it's ok, I know he's not, but still- Carver, my face is up here.”

It took some effort for Malcolm to convince her that they really would all be alright without the two of them, but eventually they climbed into the carriage to start out on their journey. They would be gone for almost three weeks – three weeks in which the men had to try and not let the whole estate fall apart.

Malcolm hoped his smile was more convincing than he felt.

 

* * *

 

They'd survived the first week, and the only disaster had been Carver getting into a fight with the street thugs (although it had been protecting a young servant girl so when Garrett stumbled across it he'd been only too willing to help out. If it was due to his brother's obnoxious nature, he preferred to let him face the consequences himself). His father had met a couple of times with a man who was introduced as Messere Thekla, though Garrett had only had chance for a brief greeting before the two had shut themselves away in their office to do whatever business they had in mind. He seemed like a kindly man, his own hair starting to grey from a washed-out brown, and softer eyes than Garrett had ever seen. He had a warm and gentle voice and he immediately felt like he could trust him – which meant that he probably worked for one of the banking societies where trust was essential.

So it was that one night halfway through the second week, Garrett stirred with an immediate sense of wrongness. There was shuffling downstairs, but it wasn't the quiet steps of either Orana, Bodhan or Sandal. He knew how they moved, and normally slept right through, but if he was right it was sometime in the very early hours of the morning and then he heard their Mabari growl.

A growl that cut off suddenly with a hissing whine that sounded almost like a gargle, as if choking on blood.

 _Fuck_.

His mind lit into panic mode. He could mourn their dog later, but right now his main concern was the safety of the occupants of the house. The dog always slept downstairs, between the main sitting areas and the servants' quarters. Orana and the others.. Oh, how he prayed they wouldn't get up to try and investigate. Orana was a harmless sweetheart who was easily frightened and would stand no chance against even the lowliest of thugs. Sandal, too, was not of the mind to fight for himself, and Bodhan was too much of a helper to manage anything by himself either.

He reached under his pillow and closed his fingers around the dagger he stored there, remaining as silent as possible for now as he strained to hear any more movement downstairs. If it were just a thief, hopefully they would take what they wanted and leave – he had no wish for bloodshed, and what if it were worse? What if the Coterie had come? He knew he was a strong fighter, but he could maybe handle one-on-three at a push, especially if they all fought dirty as rogues were wont to.

What of Carver? And Father? The bedrooms were all situated on the top floor, but had they woken too?

It took only a few split seconds for him to settle on his decision as he slipped from his bed as silently as possible, dressed only in a loose night shirt and pyjama trousers. He grabbed a second dagger from the harness on the back of his door and slipped through, light on the balls of his feet as he endeavoured to avoid the inevitable, dreaded floorboards that made far too much noise in the dead of night. There was a soft rug that trailed along the middle of the hallway that he used to help deaden the sound, but it was still a slow process, and when he could hear someone near-silently closing a door downstairs he froze solid, heart beating madly in his chest.

It was pitch black. There could be a Coterie rogue right in front of him and he wouldn't be able to tell. His eyes were still adjusting, and over the sound of his blood rushing in his ears he wouldn't be able to hear anything either. He felt like a coward but slowly, hesitantly, he edged his way towards Carver's room, separated from his room by only a shared study. He placed his ear to the door to see if he was asleep or not, but he couldn't hear the quiet rumble of snoring so assumed that he was awake, much like himself, and possibly also on the lookout for intruders.

He didn't want to risk the sound of knocking in case he alerted whoever was downstairs, so gently placed his hand on the doorknob and twisted, glad that Bodhan had insisted on keeping the hinges well oiled when it slid open enough for him to slip in without too much noise. He closed it to again and soon stepped quietly over to the be, hissing Carver's name through stifled breaths, eyes trained on his sleeping form on the bed. Maker, why couldn't he be awake right now? He needed him, more than he cared to admit. He was starting to grow terrified, not wanting to have to deal with this thief by himself.

The floor grew suddenly slick beneath his feet and his toes curled on reflex as something warm and sticky ran between them, and he froze. He felt a low keen escape his throat at the sudden realisation that Carver, despite being asleep in his covers... Was lacking a head. A head which lay scarce centimetres from his feet.

He felt bile rise suddenly and choked it down, stepping back on reflex as real panic seized his heart. This was a nightmare. It was just a nightmare. He'd had them before, so often. The window was open here, and a gentle breeze ran through and ruffled the hair on his arms, and he could feel himself shiver under his thin shirt. Such a good detail for a dream, he reassured himself. So in depth, so particular.

His biggest fear was losing his family, after all, being unable to protect them. He may not be the man of the house but he knew that one day, many years from then, it would fall to him. To keep Bethany, and Carver, and their servants safe. Even if his siblings had married off, it still stood – family was family, no matter how far away they were.

The wind caught the curtains and blew them just so so that moonlight flickered through, and cast gaunt shadows on Carver's face. His eyes were open, mouth parted in a small 'o' in shock, tongue swelling already as a result of his decapitation. This wasn't a clean murder, a neat slitting of the throat for a quick death. This was butchery.

Garrett ran.

He was barely in the hallway when he heard his father's pained cry, the sound of metal on metal, and losing all pretence of stealth he stole round the corner to where the master bedroom was situated. He was faced with the sight of his father fighting off two attackers, men in dark grey gear, twin swords in hands – and he was losing. Pushed back, back straining against the banister that was the sole thing saving him from falling back down the stairs. Instinct took over and he dove in, ramming his shoulder bodily against one of the attackers, and he heard shouts, more men running up the stairs.

Malcolm grabbed his arm and pulled him behind him, eager to protect his son, to try and buy him some time to get to safety. Garrett found himself thrown only into combat with another of these rogues, and he fought to push all fear of what had happened to Carver behind him as he struggled for his life. What had happened to provoke this attack? He knew that the Amell family were not loved by all, but they had hardly done anything to deserve this, surely? What would people gain by massacring them?

And would the same people strike at his Mother and Bethany on the road? The thought made his blood run cold, sudden fear that they may face the same fate, and neither were skilled fighters. They would surely die, all alone, in the middle of nowhere with nobody to aid them.

This was injustice, and he couldn't stand to see it carried out.

He was brought to his senses at a pained yell from his father and he turned round to see him topple backwards over the bannister. Without thinking he reached out and caught his arm, desperate not to let him fall, but the next thing he knew a sharp kick was delivered to the centre of his back and the world toppled, up became down as he was falling, falling, his father's body twisting in the air below him and their eyes met and oh Maker.

The sight of his father's panicked eyes were the last thing he remembered before they crashed into the floor together, the sickening sound of bone cracking and he wasn't sure whether it was his or Father's, but they'd fallen down two floors and somehow missed the stairs. His father was still beneath him and had cushioned the fall for him and there was pain, such pain blossoming in his chest and his arms and he couldn't breathe, the weight of it all falling on him.

He managed to roll his eyes to the left to see the bloody corpse of their dog heaped carelessly against the wall, and the slender form of Orana not much further away, collapsed and splayed as if she had been making to flee when she received a vicious slash to her spine. The world grew dark as his eyes grew heavy, and he wasn't sure he would be able to keep conscious any more. Why should he? They'd taken everything from him. This was no dream, no nightmare, he was sure of this now.

They'd taken Carver. They'd taken Orana, they'd taken his dog. He had little doubt that Bodhan and Sandal had been greeted by the same fate further down into their quarters. The lack of sound from the body beneath him told him his father was gone too, or soon would be.

What reason did he have left to fight?

 

* * *

 

“Maker's breath.. This place is a state. I warned him he was in danger, but this..”

“It is a butchery. We will find who did this, and bring them to justice. Find what you can – hopefully they didn't find the papers.”

“We should.. These people deserved better. Malcolm was an honest man. And his sons, too.. I cannot see Master Carver's body here. Perhaps.. Perhaps he is upstairs..”

Rustling. Footsteps going up. Others approaching. A pause, a sudden intake of breath.

“Karl. This one, he yet lives. I fear Malcolm's body may have been the only thing to save him.”

He felt a rough hand on his face and fought a losing battle to open his eyes, his vision swimming madly before him as he blinked, the only part of his body not to be in agony. The form before him split into two blurred images before starting to coalesce, repeating the process a small number of times before finally settling into one solid body before him.

Slender. Blond. Angled face with smooth skin. Freckles. A sharp nose that made his face look even thinner. Eyes a burning blue in a shade he didn't think he'd ever seen before, boring into his own with an expression of concern. He heard footsteps as another man hurried over, and vaguely recognised the slightly broader and far softer form of Messere Thekla – Karl? Father had never mentioned his first name, but this man had.

He felt his vision start to fade again, head lolling back as his strength left him in a sudden rush of exhaustion. He heard the man closest to him speak again, felt arms slip under his body and lift him as if he weighed nothing.

“Finish searching - we cannot risk missing anything.”

“Of course.”

“He is in a poor shape, I must not waste time. I will take him to Anders, and meet you there.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrett starts to learn the truth about his father, and searches for a purpose in his world turned upside-down.

 When Garrett next came to, he was warm, stretched out on a mattress that, while nothing in comparison to his king-sized Orelsian-imported one back in the estate, was still comfortable enough for the time being. He twitched his fingers and was relieved to find only a dull ache, and no longer the agony that had racked his body the last time he had been aware. He remembered falling, landing, and then voices..

And then it came back, all at once.

His brother dead, all the servants, his father.. An unprovoked bloodshed. His heart wrenched with guilt and loss and he shot upright in alarm, only to be held down bodily at his shoulders, causing him to flail. He was trapped, they'd taken him, and he had to go and find his mother and sister, he had to make sure they were alright, why wouldn't this person get the fuck _off him_ , and then his fist connected with something-

“Andraste's arse, fuck!”

The voice that cried out was very close to him but the weight still didn't get off, and instead another pair of hands joined the fray, helping to pin him down. Someone was speaking, telling him to calm, that he was still too freshly healed to strain himself, and eventually his fight left him as he broke into a sob. Everyone he loved was dead, and he couldn't bear it.

“Just kill me and be done with it. You've taken everything else from me you bastards, why spare me?” His voice cracked as he spat but he didn't care any more, cracking his eyes open and trying to force them to focus. He wanted to look into the eyes of those who took his family and he wouldn't glance away. He was greeted by the first man to have held him down, still leaning with his arms against his upper chest to keep him pinned, and he was suddenly reminded of the man who had touched his face the night before.

He looked tired, but it was definitely the same angular face, although his jaw was covered with a rough scruff and not the smooth skin he remembered from that brief moment. Seeing him open his eyes and glare, the man above him reacted in the opposite way to how he had expected – he broke into a relieved smile and stepped back, releasing the pressure from his chest.

“You're awake. Good, that's good. You were out for so long I worried we'd gotten to you too late; though when you pack a punch like that, I don't know if I should have been so concerned.”

He sounded so sincere, so calm. Garrett's blood was up and he growled, feeling the other man release his arms as he pushed himself up, slowly, and his eyes narrowed. Was this stranger just pretending to be benevolent? Lure him into a false sense of security so he could knock him down again? He studied the man's face more intently then, trying to pick up on any tells in his face that might suggest he meant him harm, though it seemed foolish to care for him if he was only to kill him again straight away.

He definitely had a narrow face, and his skin stretched a little tight over his jawline. His stubble, while a dark gold, had flecks of ginger in it to match his hair, a shade that wasn't very native to the Free Marches at all, or any of the southern continents. The man wouldn't stand out in Antiva, he reckoned, although his accent seemed to be very much local. Lips were parted in a half smile, though trembled slightly, as if insecure, and as he watched a tongue darted out to moisten them before swallowing. His nose was slender yet prominent (and there was blood trickling out of it – he'd have to apologise to him later if he proved worthy of it), and he was sure that side on the man had a unique profile. He had crows feet around the edges of almond-shaped eyes from a life spent smiling or worrying and he couldn't tell which, and his amber eyes were-

_Amber?_

“I thought you had blue eyes.”

The man laughed and shook his head slightly, reaching up to run a hand nervously through his hair. It had been tied back in a pony at one point, but most of it had come loose and he was only succeeding in ruffling it up now, strands trailing around the side of his face that he didn't seem to notice about. “I think you may have me mistaken for my brother, Justice. He's the one who found you. I'm Anders, and I believe you've met Karl?”

He gestured slightly to the man the other side of Garrett, who seemed to stand only slightly shorter than this Anders. He nodded to him kindly, a sad smile on his face as he shuffled his weight and folded his arms.

“Serrah, I am so sorry for what happened to your family. I had a suspicion they would be targeted, and Malcolm heeded my warnings.. But it seems we were still not prepared enough. If only Justice and I had gotten there a little sooner, maybe we could have..”

“I don't want your pity,” Garrett snapped. That was all people ever gave. Pity was condescending, a pat on the back and a surefire way to excuse yourself from any blame. You apologise, you feel like you've done your job.

Sorry didn't bring his family back. Sorry didn't allow them to rest in peace after the trauma they suffered. Sorry didn't have the hearts of those bastards in his hands. He swung his legs round the side of the cot he was on and felt that low growl in his throat once more, knowing it made him sound no better than an animal but he didn't care. Emotion was ruling sense and he was caught in an endless turmoil between grief and vengeance, and his mind easily latched on to the first thing it thought of.

“You were there! You were there so many times this week! You could have learnt where we all slept, who our servants were, the layout – everything! Stop trying to twist your words! I don't want your fucking sympathy!”

He launched over to throw another punch and was grabbed solidly round the waist, thrown back down against the cot and pinned with an arm at his throat – not suffocating him, but tight enough to let him know he was pushing the boundaries. He glanced up at this man and recognised the piercing blue gaze from that night, and saw Anders step next to his brother and place a hand on his arm, frowning as he looked to him. The two exchanged a silent gaze before Justice shook his head, fixing his glare on Garrett once more, and the similarities between them were certainly striking. If he didn't know better he would have said they were twins but Justice held himself with more confidence and there was a maturity to his features that the other lacked.

“I'll release him when he calms down. He's already hurt you and he went to attack Karl. I'd say he's not in a state to think for himself right now.”

“He didn't hurt me, Justice, I fell over.”

“Don't lie for his sake. Just explain it to him. If he's not going to co-operate, we should not bother wasting our time on him.”

Anders frowned a moment before stepping away, and Garrett couldn't turn his head enough to follow his movements any more. He returned after a few moments with a small chest that he cradled in his arms, watching him with soft eyes and that kind smile once more.

“Serrah Amell, I'd like to share some words with you. Alone, preferably, but I need you to promise that no matter what I tell you, you'll control your anger. I know you're hurting, and I know that's something we can't help you with yet – but we will, if you give us the chance.”

“What, alone so you can kill me-” He felt his air cut off as Justice pushed down on his throat and flailed, Anders glaring at his brother once more.

“Justice, let off him. This is hardly going to help bring him to our side.”

It took a few more moments before he eased off the pressure and stood back, Garrett gasping and rubbing at his throat. He had to make a note that Justice seemed fiercely protective of his brother - but then, hadn't he been too? It was natural older sibling instinct, and he knew that if he were in this position and one of them had been threatening Carver, or Bethany, he would have been just the same.

He regarded the three of them warily as he sat back up, taking a moment to assess his standings from first impressions. Anders seemed like a pacifist, almost like a male version of Bethany. There was something in his posture that screamed that he was always on edge, expecting something to jump out at him from every corner, and he could see it in the hunch of his shoulders and that he always kept his weight balanced between both feet, never relaxing it all on one. The man wore his emotions on his sleeve, and they seemed to range from worried to nervous to relieved, and Garrett found himself wondering just how many burdens the man bore that made his face look older than he seemed.

Justice's face was most always a blank canvas unless he was glaring, and he put that down to why his skin was so smooth. He had no crinkles from his expressions, and seemed to guard his emotions with great care. Although the difference in their eye colours had been most helpful at the start to distinguish them, and would certainly make the process quicker, he had a feeling they would be simple to tell apart from their mannerisms alone.

Even now, Justice was stood with his arms folded, posture solid and square and positioned slightly in front of Anders. He seemed to bear more muscles than his brother too, and Garrett had little doubt that he would be a formidable fighter. He just held himself with that assurance and moved with the fluidity he would expect of a swordsman.

Karl was the unknown here, and set Garrett on edge for no other reason than that he associated the man with the last week of normality. And where did he fit in with the brothers? What were this strange band doing together on their own down.. Wherever they were.

For the first time since waking, he decided to take stock of the room. It resembled an underground bunker, lit all over with candles to give them enough light to work comfortably with. They currently seemed to be in someone's bedroom, with a large bookshelf lining the wall opposite the door, and a writing desk covered with sheets upon sheets of paper on the other. The bed he had been on stood in the middle of the room with only the headboard in contact with the wall, the door to the right of it that must heave lead to some other room, possibly a common room for them all, assuming they lived here.

His gaze fell back to Anders for a moment, and still saw only a hopeful expression in his eyes, and he nodded once as if to reassure him that all would be all right.

“Fine. I'll listen to what you have to say.”

“Excellent. Justice, Karl, if you wouldn't mind giving us some privacy? Our contacts should be coming in with some reports, and if one of you would let Lirene know I'll be coming to see her later I would appreciate it.”

“I'm not leaving you alone with _him_. What if he tries to kill you again?”

Anders turned to his brother and raised an eyebrow, though Garrett noticed the slight tension in his jaw that suggested he wasn't willing to discuss the matter further. Justice held it for a moment, before turning his back and walking out without another word. Karl offered them a shy smile before stepping out after him, and Anders moved to shut the door before twisting the lock, leaning his head against the wood with a heavy sigh.

So, Justice deferred to Anders. Interesting. If Carver had ever tried to tell him to do something he disagreed with, he didn't think any power in Thedas could have convinced him otherwise. That was something to file away for later.

“I don't know how I'll ever convince him that I can look after myself. Drives me insane sometimes.”

“He's older than you, isn't he?” Garrett found himself shuffling a little on the cot, settling for sitting on his hands in an attempt to not fidget. He noticed he was no longer wearing the thing bedclothes he had been wearing during the fight, but a simple tunic and pants instead. He wasn't sure how he felt that they must have dressed him, but he was grateful not to be covered in blood any more either.

“He is. Four years.”

“Three years for the twins and I.”

Anders opened his mouth as if to apologise, but then remembered his reaction to Karl from earlier and chose not to. He was right. Sorry didn't help the burning loss he would be feeling, but maybe he could offer him comfort in another way. “You mother and sister are alive and well.”

“What? How do you-” If he was telling the truth, this was good news indeed. He hadn't dared hope, and part of him was still too afraid to cling on to this belief only for it to be dashed away once more.

“We have scouts all over the Free Marches. I've assigned some of our best to remain near them at all times, make sure they are kept from harm. They won't be seen, they'll make sure of that. I don't want to see any more innocent lives lost.”

He spoke as if it were the obvious thing to do, but Garrett could only imagine the organisation it took. As far as most people were concerned the women in the family would be of little importance, expendable, but here Anders had done his best to organise their safekeeping out of the goodness of his heart. He would feel happy until he saw them alive and well himself, but that wouldn't be for another few weeks.

“Can you tell me why this happened to my family? You all mentioned my father a few times like you knew him, but I've never seen either you or Justice before.”

Anders turned to look at him with a weak smile, a once more exhausted look on his face before he picked the small chest back up from the desk and came to settle on the cot next to Garrett, not too close and not too far away. He flicked the catch and lifted the lid, and Garrett glanced inside to catch sight of an assortment of things. Bundles of letters, tiny fragments of what may have once been jewels.. He pulled out two pendants and lay them flat in his palm, placing the chest on the cot beside him before turning to face Garrett properly, a more serious expression falling to his face now.

“How much do you know about these symbols?”

The one on the left he half recognised, the circular pendant embossed with the flaming sun of the Chantry. A powerful institution that commanded most of Thedas with the Maker-given divinity appointed to it. His family were only casual believers for show, but he knew that his father in particular had hated it. The inside of the pendant had an engraving of a flaming sword, all painted a blood red against the silver of the metal.

“That's the symbol of the Templars, isn't it? The soldiers hired as holy warriors for the Chantry?”

“On the outside, yes. In the most base term, they are mercenaries with a powerful employer, but in reality they are so much more. What about this one?”

He pointed to the other pendant, a near circle with a split at the bottom, and he frowned. He had no idea what it meant, but he'd seen it all throughout his childhood. “My father had a pendant like this, and a ring too. I saw him receive scrolls with wax seals of this symbol. What is it?”

“This is the Symbol of Magi.”

“Magi?” Garrett frowned, head tilted as he looked up to Anders who merely quirked a lip in response. “But I thought Mages were extinct? There's no magic in the world – hasn't been for centuries.”

“Magic may not exist any more, but the Order still does. You know the history, I'm sure – the oppression, the extermination. Treating those born with the gift like vermin on the streets. Dogs had more rights than them – the right to love, to raise families – to live.”

“I'm.. Not following.”

Anders placed the Templar amulet down in the box once more and turned the Magi one over, showing him the script on the back. _Libertas cum aequalitas._ Garrett didn't understand what he assumed was Arcanum, but he was pretty sure the first word meant liberty. How could people be fighting for Mage rights when Mages no longer roamed the world?

“The Templar Order seeks as they always have; to purge impurities from the world, no matter the form they take. Many ages back, it was those born with a connection to the Fade that they targeted. The age past, the Anderfels executed everyone born to parents from outside their lands, and Orlais exiled all those who would not bow their knee to the Chantry wholeheartedly. It won't surprise you to know that both those countries host the most powerful Templar strongholds. These days, the term “Mage” has come to be used in reference to all those who fall outside of the 'perfection' they so desire.”

“So what are they after now?”

“That.. That's what we don't know. Your father was working on intelligence from the rest of the Free Marches for us. It was helpful to have someone who knew the inner machinations of Fereldan on our side, and he believed he was on the brink of a breakthrough, though.. I do not know how well his theory stands.”

He clenched his hand around the amulet and stood, pacing in his room then, Garrett remaining on the bed and watching him. His father had always been vague with what kept him in his office, but he had just assumed that he had a great interest in history papers. To learn that he had been an integral part of a Thedas-wide, through-the-ages war between two cultish orders.. He wasn't sure how to feel, or even if he could believe it, not fully. And if Anders had trouble believing what his father had suspected, what chance did he have?

“What was he working on?”

Anders sighed and leaned over his desk with his back to him, gripping the rim and hanging his head. Once more he looked exhausted, and Garrett couldn't help but feel a little sorry for him.

“You're familiar with the concept of the Fade, yes? The beyond, where spirits reside, and where a small part of our mind goes when we dream. It is why we dream, why dwarves cannot, although I've heard it said our dreams were much more vivid back when magic still ran through our blood.”

“And Mages could pass into the Fade, couldn't they?”

He nodded, straightening up a little and glancing over his shoulder to him.

“The Templars apparently believe that the only way they can achieve pure salvation in the eyes of the Maker is to ascend to the Golden City itself. That, of course, involves the Fade. They believe the Maker is waiting for them, testing them to see if they are committed enough to risk it. I personally think they've been snorting too much lyrium dust..”

Garrett frowned and leaned forwards, linking his hands in his lap as he contemplated this. He could see why Anders didn't believe that his father's information was correct, but he knew the man better – his Father was intelligent and devoted. He wouldn't have told them unless he was certain. Still, it did beg one question.

“So, why are you telling me all this? I don't have any information – there's nothing I can give you.”

“Wrong,” Anders said, smiling softly over his shoulder and focusing that warm gaze on him once more. “Your father was never shy on praising your abilities. He'd been torn between inviting you into our order and keeping you safe from it all. If you want to, my offer is here – join us and we'll train you to the best of your abilities. Join us, and I'll help you get the justice your family deserves. We're lacking talented rogues in our ranks, Serrah Amell, and some of our plans require.. A more refined touch.”

He stepped over and placed a hand on Garrett's shoulder, squeezing comfortingly with a sad look in his eyes. “I won't force you to make a decision, and I won't try and guilt trip you into it. Though, I must warn you that if you join us, you must renounce all ties with your past. Your name, your identity, gone. It would be safer if you do not contact your mother and sister, at least until we have assured their safety. It's a lot to give up, but it's a lot you could gain as well. Take what time you need to rest here, I'll be just down the corridor in my office. Whatever your decision, it's yours to make and yours alone.”

“Don't bother leaving,” Garrett sighed, reaching up to catch the man's slender wrist in his grasp. “I already know my decision.” After all, what life did he have now? Whoever had killed Carver and Father could well wish to finish the job, and he had no idea where to even start in order to carry out his own vigilante act. What Anders was offering him was a purpose, support, a roof over his head.

The chance to not be alone.

So maybe the three men he had met so far made for quite the odd bunch, but he could hardly hold that against them now, could he? They each brought something to the table, and maybe what that something was was yet to be made clear, but if they considered him worthy of an invitation then it seemed a poor choice to decline. He squeezed Anders' wrist slightly in confirmation and was pleased when he felt the man's fingers slip around his own wrist in turn, squeezing back in a firm hold as he met his gaze with a dancing light in his eyes.

“So, what will your new name be?”

“Can it be anything? I mean, does that mean that your names are all fake?”

Anders nodded and pulled his hand loose from his grasp, fussing with the edge of his shirt for a moment. “Justice's birth name mean 'Just', and he's always had a very firm sense of right and wrong. Karl took the name of his old friend who had killed by the Templars before he joined us.”

“And you?”

He smiled sadly, expression dropping to the floor before responding in a soft voice. “My mother was an Anders. I wanted to remember the one spark of good in my life.”

He made a noise of acknowledgement in his throat and felt his fingers twitch, aching to say something of some comfort and also not knowing at one point he would be considered as stepping the bounds. Still, his comment had made him think on what monicker would suit him most. They may all go by the surname Amell, but their father was a Hawke and they were all Hawkes at heart, and he knew that within the politicians of Kirkwall 'hawk' was a term they gave troublemakers and shit-stirrers who were seeking conflict. “That..”

Anders must have seen it in his expression for he nodded, placing a clenched fist over his heart and bowing his head, mischievous glint in his honey eyes as he regarded him. “Welcome to the Circle of Magi, Hawke.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Libertas cum aequalitas - Liberty with equality (I believe! I don't know the grammar behind latin so it could be horrifically wrong, if it is please correct me!)
> 
> Again I haven't proof read it yet because my attention span is nil but I also didn't fancy waiting until I had before I uploaded it.. I'll get round to it in a few days ^^'


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders introduces Hawke to Isabela, Isabela's flirting with Hawke apparently makes him realise he'd rather have his boss, and Hawke gets a quick glimpse into said boss' love of cats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a warning now, this chapter came out far more discourse oriented than intended, but I wanted to lay a few more blocks down before we get any further. Action should be starting next chapter¬

Very little fuss was made over his induction, it seemed. Justice and Karl accepted it without argument, and once more it seemed it was Anders who made the decisions over the others. He was introduced to their base, situated in some hovel corner of Darktown behind a trapdoor (and it felt so cliché it hurt) and well out of the way. It was built like a warren, the main corridor branching off into separate rooms for the three who lived there, as well as store room, a training room and three others that were use for apothecary and whatever was needed at the time. The newly named Hawke was given the most intact of these three with promises that furnishings would be brought in in due time.

The first week was mostly spent adjusting, and Anders insisted that if he ever needed to take time to himself, he was to do so immediately, no questions asked. His grieving process felt incomplete, and although he cried the third night of his new identity, he still didn't feel at ease, though most of his days were spent in solitude in the spare room that was acting as a study, reading through the notes and journals they had stored there in order to learn what he could about this Circle of Magi.

The second week and he was getting restless, no longer content to be cooped up in this burrow. Although he had been promised information on the identity of his family's killer (and it had been hinted on more than one occasion that they had at least pinpointed a couple of culprits) none had been forthcoming. He'd adjusted as best as he could given the situation but now his blood was burning with the desire to act, anything. He was contemplating selling his left kidney for the chance to go climbing some buildings when he was finally called upon by Karl to join them in the training room.

The training room was basic in comparison to the rest of their hideout, being one large, open room with some weapon racks lining the side and a bench for the others to watch. They had no shortage of weapons to choose from though Anders had promised Hawke that they'd get him his own particular set in due time. Justice was stood there now with a heavy longsword and shield, practising a few swings on the armoured training dummy down the far end. He had to admit, the man cut an impressive figure. It wasn't until recently that the physical differences between the two brothers had really started to show, and he now realised that Justice's bulk was nearer to his own while Anders seemed to be losing weight, if anything.

Even now he was stood taking stock of the ranged ammunition, and the tunic that had fit him snugly last week was hanging loosely around his chest. He knew that the man was prone to migraines, and Justice's fierce protective nature only increased in these times, ushering Anders away to his room and refusing to let Hawke anywhere near him, although the law didn't seem to stand for Karl. He was always the first to head down to his room, leaving the newest recruit confused and alone. The three were very much in sync and he the obvious outsider, though Anders had made an effort to try and spend time with him when he could.

Now he looked up, catching sight of Hawke and breaking out into a weak grin. He could see his skin was slick with a sweaty sheen, and not the healthy kind that came from strenuous exercise. He waved him over to the rack where he stood, and gestured with a vague arm to the assorted bows and crossbows hanging there. Karl came to stand with them, folding his arms with an appreciative hum.

“Are these the latest batch you got from Varric? His contacts never cease to amaze me,” He murmured, reaching out to lightly touch the crossbow closest to him. Hawke had to admit that they were far more elaborate than the ones he and Carver had been allowed to play with, with ornate engravings along the shaft and multiple mechanisms to enhance the force behind the bolt. Anders nodded with a happy hum, glancing to Hawke with a light in his eyes.

“You do know how to fire one, right?”

“Sure, I'm not the greatest shot though.”

“That remains to be seen. Go on, try them out, see which takes your fancy. I'm going to take you out to meet some more of our contacts today – it's high time we get you out and working.”

“Working?” Hawke questioned, head tilted to the side, though Anders merely grinned in response before stepping out. Karl chuckled softly, shaking his head with a fond look in his eyes.

“So, Hawke, how do you feel about killing?”

Well wasn't that a question out of the blue. And how did he feel about it? Taking a life was never a nice thing, he knew that, but he certainly wouldn't hesitate if that murderer came into his life. In his mind, people that committed severe crimes deserved the same, eye for an eye and all that. He explained that to Karl, who only hummed quietly as he paused in thought before addressing him again.

“And what if that person hadn't done something bad yet, but they were going to? That by killing them, you could prevent an even worse consequence from happening? Would you?”

“How would I know who would commit what crime, though? You cannot know a man's future actions. Sometimes he may not even know them himself. Surely if you take that approach, it's too easy to justify every actions with the pretence that something worse may have come about, and then there's nowhere to draw a line.”

He hadn't been aware of the sound of metal on metal stopping, blue eyes boring into his back as their own contemplated the weight behind his words.

“I can see why Anders wanted you with us,” Karl said, smiling warmly and clapping him on the back in a friendly gesture. “I'm glad you're with us, Hawke. I had feared you may let your desire for revenge cloud your senses, but if anything I believe they've only gotten clearer. You will be called upon to kill – none of us are proficient in stealth, and most of our rogues are in other parts of the Free Marches. But know this; if we ask for you to kill someone, it is because of crimes they have already committed, and that we have evidence that they will do so again. We may not share everything with you, but what we keep is for your own good, and the good of the Circle.”

Hawke nodded with a light frown as Karl stepped away and left the room, no doubt to grease whatever mysterious cog he was in charge of in this part of the order, leaving him to his own devices to look through the weapons.

He was immediately drawn to the third in the set, a small yet sturdy crossbow with a silver relief of a hawk's head at the front, its beak open to allow the bolt to pass through. It was compact, enough that it shouldn't snag over his shoulder and could be concealed under clothing without too much difficulty, and when he picked it up to test out the weight he knew he wouldn't settle for any other. He'd have to ask for a chance to practice with it later, and find out who this mysterious Varric who had contacts that provided weapons of such stylish quality.

 

* * *

 

He had expected to have regained his bearings in the city when he and Anders left an hour later, but Darktown was even more of a maze than he had first imagined. Twists and turns, this way and that, corridors that split off into multiple alleys and mezzanines up and down. The added security of the trapdoor really felt unnecessary to him, but he supposed he'd practically never been down here. No nobleman with any sense would step foot in the seedier side of Lowtown, let alone Darktown, but it was just so.. Stuffy. Enclosed. It was like feeling the weight of the city above his head and he wasn't sure he liked it.

Fortunately their end destination was in Lowtown, where there was at least sky to speak of. The anonymity down here was an unexpected bonus; in Hightown everyone knew everyone, but in Lowtown nobody gave a shit about those high and mighty nobles up topside. Here concerns were far more real than the trivial fashion trends that were pressing on the forefront of the minds of the nobility. Food prices, plague, which gang was coming out as more powerful that week – these were the things that truly mattered.

Anders pulled them into an alleyway and set up to wait, settling down on a crate and resting his elbows in his lap, chin in hand as he studied Hawke a moment. They'd made the journey in near-silence, but in his defense Hawke had been desperately trying to memorise the journey in case he was expected to find his way home alone. He took up residence opposite Anders now, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back against the wall, quirking an eyebrow at the expression the other man was giving him.

“Do I have something in my beard?”

“Hm?” Anders asked, eyes focusing again as he laughed a little in embarrassment. “Sorry, I was just trying to work out how old you are. You look so young.”

“I'm twenty-one. If I shaved you'd swear I'm fifteen, I assure you.”

“So young..” Anders hummed and Hawke could have sworn he saw something like sadness flash through his eyes. He found himself examining the blond now, doing his best to estimate his age in turn.

“How old are you? I've been trying to work it out since we met but I can't put my finger on it.”

“That's part of the mystery, isn't it?”

Hawke sighed at the wicked grin he was being given, though glanced up at the sound of footsteps coming down the alley, belonging to a very shapely and exotic looking woman. Dark skinned legs that went on for days, flowing, dark hair held back by a bandana.. And oh sweet Maker was she even wearing anything under that shirt? Anders hopped off the crate at her approach and nodded to her while she flashed a grin with a mock salute, sidling over to him to play with his hair while standing far too in his personal space for Hawke's liking.

“Sparky, darling, I haven't seen you in months. I thought you'd forgotten about me.”

“Things have been busy on our front, apologies.”

She pouted at him, though golden eyes soon caught sight of their third companion and her face lit up, turning her attention to him with a low purr. “Is this the one you told me about? Oh, he's gorgeous.”

There was something to be said for having the physical embodiment of all his darkest fantasies approaching him and stroking a hand over his chest, and Hawke found himself frozen to the spot, congratulating himself on not sinking to the floor in a quivering mess. He caught Anders smirking at him from over her shoulder and then proceeded to try and disentangle himself from her, feeling his cheeks reddening in a blush that showed up surprisingly well on his sun-tanned skin.

“Bela, don't scare the poor guy. You know we don't get recruits very often.”

“Aww, but you did say he was mine for the evening. That still stands, right?”

“What?” Hawke yelped in a slightly higher voice than he had intended.

Bela giggled, placing a kiss on his cheek before stepping back and resting her hand on a cocked hip. “Nothing so exciting as you're imagining, I'm sure. Though, after we're done...”

She purred again and Hawke closed his eyes, willing himself to think unsexy thoughts. Funnily enough the memory of Carver's head by his feet did wonders for calming a building arousal.

“Isabela here is one of our exterior contacts. Pirate, smuggler-”

“-devil in bed.”

“Quite,” Anders drawled, and Hawke couldn't tell whether he was unimpressed or just trying to play it cool. Had the two of them slept together? For some reason that set a sickening feeling low in his gut, and he refused to admit that it was jealousy. Jealous of who? He wasn't prepared to examine that just yet. “Point is, she's going to put you through your paces, see just what it is we're working with here. Listen to her, do as she asks of you – although if it's sex, it's your choice, not an order.”

“It can be an order if you want it to be, sweet thing,” Isabela looked him up and down with hungry eyes once more and Hawke kept the image of his family's massacre firmly in his mind's eyes. If nothing else, this whole experience was going to teach him quite the degree of self-discipline. “Oh, Anders, do you have the- you babe.”

He'd deposited a small burlap sack in her hands and she opened it, peering inside with a grin. She was soon pulling one of the items out, Anders muttering under his breath about not shaking them, and Hawke was intrigued to see a small flask with a suspicious looking amber liquid in it, sloshing and bubbling. In fact, he would have mistaken it for amber if it weren't sloshing about, which only made him more curious. He'd have to ask Anders about them later, if Isabela didn't spill it first, either figuratively or literally.

“When have I ever fallen short on an order? Speaking of which, did you manage to intercept it?”

“Like clockwork, Sparky. My men are delivering it to the usual spot as we speak – though security is getting a bit tighter. We might have to look elsewhere soon.”

He didn't look best pleased with the news, but took it all with a weak smile nonetheless. “I'll look into it and let you know, and I'll leave you two to it for now. Try to bring him back in one piece for me, would you?”

Hawke refused to accept that his heartbeat quickened when that rich, honey gaze landed on him for more than a few moments with a sort of fond intensity that he either hadn't been on the receiving end of before, or just simply hadn't noticed. He blamed Isabela's close proximity, the pheromones in the air must be making him on edge.

“You strike a hard deal, but it's not my fault if he falls.”

 

* * *

 

“Sparky?”

Anders really hadn't been kidding when he said that Isabela would be putting him through his paces. Hawke had expected some degree of physical exertion, but he hadn't expected to be speed climbing the outside of the Chantry in Hightown as a warm-up exercise. It was just as hard physically climbing the bloody thing as it was to not glance up at the pantsless pirate a few feet above him (and if that tiny scrap of fabric was what classed as under-garments these days he was a nug's uncle), and he was ashamed that when they reached the very top he was panting, exhausted, and had to beg for a breather.

“Sparky? Oh, why Sparky? Used to call him Sparklefingers, but Sparky is just easier. The things he creates, ain't seen nobody else craft the like. Got some sort of magic touch, he does. His brother's all the brawn and he's got the brains, and Karl's not too dumb either. These intellectual sorts, they spend all their time reading and learning and it just seems so boring to me.”

“I admit, I was going stir crazy down there. I'm glad for the chance to get out and about, even if it just shows me how unfit I am.”

“You think climbing to the bell tower of the Chantry is unfit? Fuck me, Hawke, I dread to think what you think fit is. You've already proven to have more than enough stamina to please me.”

_Think dead kittens, gutted nugs, anything._

Hawke smiled slightly, leaning forward and hooking his arms around his knees. From here they could see all of Hightown, the Chantry stationed high up within the city as it was. He could even see the roof of his old estate, and didn't that burn away at his heart some more. He tried not to think about his ancestral home but it was hard. Sometimes he still woke up and rolled over, expecting to be greeted with that same view and had to suppress the disappointment he felt when all he met was windowless wall.

“He said you were an exterior contact. Does that mean you're not-”

“I'm not part of that Order thing, no. I know well who I deal with, but the way I do it it's a no strings attached deal. I smuggle stuff they need, they supply me with products I want, I get their support and protection and they get my aid when they call on it – like now. They weren't kidding when they said their rogues are out of the city. You're going to be flying practically solo throughout all of this. Justice isn't subtle enough for the work they want, and Karl's a pacifist. Haven't seen that man raise a finger to hurt a fly, but he keeps the books and ledgers in order so he's useful in that regard, I suppose.”

“How did he come to join them?” Hawke found himself asking, gaze still flicking over the city. He was trying to memorise street corners, locations, all in a different manner than he was used to. He hadn't realised how disconcerting an eagle-eye view could be until that moment. The roofs he climbed on in Hightown were generally quite a bit lower down than this. “I understand that the brothers would have stuck together, but Karl doesn't seem like them at all.”

“I don't know the whole story myself, handsome, but from what I gather he helped them when they needed it most. Enough to earn Anders' highest trust, and if he trusts someone, Justice does by default. If you ask me, he trusts too easily, but then I suppose I don't get where I am without being suspicious of everyone and everything.”

“He trusts too easily?” Now that he thought about it, however, he hadn't seen him once question anything. Maker, he'd told Hawke some considerable secrets before even asking for his commitment, assuming that he would be loyal because of who his father had been. Well, it had worked, but still.

“He sees the good in everyone, and rarely the bad, unless they're a known Templar. I don't know what he's got against them but I'd swear it runs deeper than this whole ages-old feud their two factions have. I saw it once, and he gets this fire in his eyes and you'd swear he'd raze whole cities to the ground just to be rid of them. That's not a political passion, that's personal. He won't go on site to Templar holdings any more for fear he'll let his anger sway his decisions,” She explained, blowing hair from her face that a gentle breeze had the audacity to knock out of place. “You ask Karl, or Justice, they'll say the same. He wants to believe most everybody has a heart of gold, though he guards his own closely.”

“I'm not following again.”

“You didn't hear it from me,” Isabela murmured, leaning in to lower her voice despite the fact that there was no chance of anybody else hearing them from all this way up, “But he and Karl used to be more than just good friends, if you catch my drift. Sailing together at full mast, mark my words.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow at that, both surprised and not. There had seemed to be a certain something to their friendship dynamic, though he hadn't wanted to jump to conclusions. Well, at least he knew Anders swung in his direction, and he found himself more than a little pleased by the new knowledge. Still, used to? He wanted to ask more but Isabela was already standing and stretching, looking to him with a devilish grin.

“Anyway, handsome, you got me talking too much. And don't you try those puppy eyes on me – I promised that I would work you hard today, and if we're done with the essentials quickly enough, I'll ride you hard too before I have to drop you back off.”

Maker have mercy, this woman was going to exhaust him to death.

 

* * *

 

The day passed by in a blur of free-running training, something he had never learned how to do, accelerated by the knowledge that one misstep would send him plummeting from the roofs of Hightowns to either splatter his insides all over the cobblestones, or managing to at the very least concuss some poor old biddy on her way to her friend's Diamondback night. He hadn't anticipated just what sheer adrenaline could do, but by the time the sun was setting he and Isabela were taking the overhead route back towards Lowtown where she showed him some quicker escape routes back into Darktown itself.

“You know, I think you'll be all right, Hawke,” She grinned as they stopped at the junction where they would part ways, hand resting on her hip with a warm smile, rich gaze flicking over his body once more in appreciation. He had politely turned down her request to warm her bed and she hadn't pushed, for which he was extremely grateful, leaving the two of them to return to their holdings for the night. “Come see me when you get chance, there's some more things I'd like to teach you, but you've covered what was asked of you well. You tell Sparky he needs to come play Wicked Grace with us again, yeah? And you're coming to it, too – drag him if you have to. He's a wicked drunk, and I wouldn't mind seeing that ass again..”

Punch drunk on exhaustion as he was, he really didn't need her to fuel his imagination any more than it already was. He offered her a wonky grin and she laughed softly, reaching up to peck him amicably on the cheek.

“I've enjoyed our time together tonight, sweet thing. I'll catch you around!”

“Likewise,” Hawke nodded, watching as she swaggered back off into the darkness of the alleys, and he knew she was walking like that for show. Ok, alright, he couldn't deny that he was tempted by her offer, but deep down inside he knew his attentions were directed to a more masculine, more pale character in his life.

Was it wrong to be attracted to your boss?

Pushing that thought aside he slipped through the twisting Darktown trails, and stealthily made his way through the trap door and back into their hideout. It was practically silent and at first he was worried that everyone had up and left him, but then he heard a crash from down the corridor and a swift curse that very colourfully described the shape of Andraste's derrière, and he couldn't help the grin as he sauntered down to the common room before knocking once and pushing the door open.

Anders was hastily trying to pick up sheets upon sheets of sketches that had fallen from a large tome that he had apparently knocked from the desk, and Hawke immediately stepped over to help him. A lot of them seemed to be sketches of herbs or minerals (and how he had managed a page of five different rocks that actually looked different he didn't know), and he noted some formulae scribbled down the sides as well. He had assumed that these were all his study and work notes before he found one that seemed a rough sketch of some cats out in the alley, and his eyes widened as he glanced to the blond man beside him, waving it slightly in emphasis.

“This, this is really good! Did you draw this?”

“I like anatomy,” was Anders' response, a little brusquely as he snatched the paper back. Hawke felt himself flounder a moment, unsure as to what the source of this hostility was as the papers were stuffed back inside the leather-bound book and replaced on the table, Anders getting to his feet once more. Hawke remained crouched down, hoping that keeping his stature smaller might help the other man to relax a little. It could be possible that he had just been startled, and of course he'd feel uneasy.

“I tried drawing my dog when I was ten, and my father was so proud of it. He had it framed and placed in the main room so all the guests had to look at it. It was only Carver that had the audacity to tell me it looked like an overweight nug.”

Anders hadn't made a move while Hawke spoke, though after a few moments of silence his body posture lessened slightly and he caught sight of a weak smile at the corner of his mouth. “I've seen it. It wasn't long after your father and I became acquaintances, and at one meeting he brought it along. He was so proud of you..” There was a sadness to his tone at that that Hawke felt would be prudent not to question, but it did make him wonder. The more time he spent with the man, the more he began to realise that the smile was just a façade. He seemed so world-weary, and he had to admire his determination not to give up the fight that he was in.

“You knew Father that long? How old were you at the time?”

“Seventeen, just shy of eighteen. I saw you once, at your estate, though I doubt you'd remember.”

Hawke felt suddenly very upset that he didn't remember this visit at all.

“You and your brother were in the garden playing with your dog when Justice and I arrived. We decided that it was safer to meet there than anywhere else, at least until we'd properly established ourselves in the city. Your mother was furious though, she came in halfway through and yelled for him not to bring business into family.”

He could imagine it, too. His mother was certainly the one who wore the metaphorical trousers in the house, but they'd all been content to let it be that way. He wondered if she knew that it was that work that had cost the estate their lives.. If she'd told Bethany what father had been, or they would claim that it had been a result of political strife. He wasn't sure which he preferred, though he would certainly appreciate being able to let them know that he was alive and well, help them through the grieving process. At least they had each other.

Anders sighed heavily and held a hand out to help Hawke up, smiling slightly as he took it and stood as well. “Well, either way, I dare say you've had a long day. Come, Justice and Karl are out and I was getting bored on my own. Fancy a game of cards?” He stepped over to the side cabinet to pull out a bottle of something strong and two glasses, bringing them over to the table in the corner where three cushioned chairs sat. When all four of them were together they pulled one of the desk chairs over, but for now the two could relax together.

Hawke nodded and picked the deck up, starting to cut it with practised ease, though as Anders poured them both drinks he frowned, glancing to the thinner man with an odd gaze. “Are you sure you should be drinking with a migraine?”

“There are worse ways to die,” was the only response as he knocked back a good gulp of the burning, amber liquid. “Loser has to do the dishes for a week?”

 


End file.
